Loving That Cowboy Page 10

  Her head still whirled. In the few days since she’d arrived in Calgary she’d been ‘duded up’ by Samantha, been on a trail ride, seen a cougar, stayed overnight in a remote ranch house and fallen in a love with a cowboy.

  Scratch that last thought.

  Had sex with a cowboy, she reminded herself. Mind blowing, deeply satisfying sex but that was not love as Samantha had so bluntly reminded her.

  So what was it? Trisha could swear that their night together meant as much to Cameron as it had done to her. But then he’d ignored her. Ridden by with a smile on his face and left her with her arm drooping like a flag at half mast. How dumb of her to think it could have been anything else but sex. And he’d got it easy.

  She’d dared to step back into life and been given a sharp reminder that along with joy and happiness comes pain, disillusionment and loss. Her loss. Again.

  Disappointment manifested itself in a vicious cramp that twisted her gut. She slipped her arm across her stomach and gasped.

  “Are you okay, Ms. Watts?” Vince Allen, the stage manager, touched her elbow.

  Trisha nodded and whispered back, “Just a bit of stage fright.”

  Vince grinned at her. “You’ll be fine once you get out there. Just look out over the lights. You won’t see anyone. It will be like you’re on your own. Trust me.”

  She didn’t believe him but thanked him for his reassurance anyway.

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen, it’s my pleasure to introduce to you the lady who will be the final judge of Purple Plain Publishing’s cover models competition.”

  Trisha looked up in alarm. Final judge? Had she heard correctly? When had that happened? She’d been introduced to Marguerite DeVries, the publisher, only moments before readying herself to come on stage. Marguerite had smiled, shook her hand warmly and thanked her profusely. Now she knew why.

  “I’m going to kill her,” Trisha muttered viciously, imagining Samantha’s demise by several gory and satisfying methods. “Just kill her.”

  “From London, England, award-winning international photo-journalist, Ms. Trisha Watts.” Denis barely took a breath before continuing with her introduction. “Her credits include in-depth looks at subjects as diverse as the Toronto Fashion Week and trail riding in Africa. Along the way she’s garnered acclaim for coverage of every aspect of equine sports and more recently some quality time with a Hollywood star that even makes my heart beat faster. And now, ladies and gentlemen, here she is. Ms. Trisha Watts.”

  Vince gently nudged her arm. “You’re on. Go wow them.”

  Trisha took a deep breath, dreading setting a foot on that stage. Samantha had so much to answer for.

  Vince nudged her again and she nodded. She lifted her head, pasted a smile on her face and walked out into the spotlight, waving at the audience as she accepted their applause.

  Denis reached in and kissed her on the cheek before leaving her alone in front of the microphone. She adjusted it to her height and as she did so admitted that Vince was right. She looked out into the body of the hall and saw nothing but the dim outline of indeterminate shapes. Only a little light filtered in from the main lobby from around the edges of the draped doors. She hated every minute of it but smiled and thanked Denis and everyone else for the warm welcome.

  Once she began to speak, her nervousness dissipated.

  “First, I want to assure you that this evening isn’t about me or what I have or haven’t done.” She waited for the burst of appreciative applause to die down. “This is about twelve, handsome, fit young men waiting off-stage ...” catcalls from ladies in the audience had her laughing with genuine amusement.

  “I get that you’re eager to see them and I can promise you won’t be disappointed. These twelve gentlemen have a chance for a prize which could change their lives. If girls and women can make a career out of their looks and style, why shouldn’t men?”

  She stopped for another round of applause accompanied by rowdy cheers then turned to the first of the easels. As yet she had not seen any of the photographs, and had only rehearsed a few comments with Vince and Samantha for the unveiling of each portrait. She was to locate the name of the subject on the back of the easel and call him on to the stage.

  Trisha walked up to the first easel, disliking the purple velvet cover with its cattle-brand logo and tasselled fringe, knowing it was all part and parcel of the build up to revealing the contestants. Never coy or cutesy she now had to be both for Samantha and Marguerite’s sake. This was their event, not hers, however underhanded Samantha had been in drawing her into it. Her stomach clenched but she looked over her shoulder at the audience with what she hoped was a saucy grin.

  “Are we ready?” she asked and again the reaction from the crowded room rolled over her. She pulled the cover off the first easel, walked behind it and read out the name. “Number One is Brent Heywood. Please come and join me Mr. Heywood.”

  A tall, slim, dark haired man stepped out onto the stage waving at the crowd with both hands. He topped off the tux he wore with a happy grin on his face. As he stood beside his picture Trisha didn’t see a sign of happiness in his ice blue eyes as he continued to wave. She repeated the process with the next three easels, but when she pulled the cover off number five she stopped, sure there had to be a mistake. The first four models were all clothed to some degree, but this guy was buck naked.

  His photograph showed him in the shower, one hand splayed across the wall for support while the other held a sponge against his belly. The only screen between the viewer and everything nature blessed him with were the soap suds foaming down his thigh. The stream of water plastered his hair to his head and cascaded off his shoulders. Glistening droplets hung on his eyelashes, barely screening the daring, devil-take-you glint of self mockery she glimpsed in his eyes as he looked straight into the camera.

  Shocked, Trisha stepped back and then moved aside so the audience could see the photograph too.

  “Number Five,” she announced above the hoots and whistles of approval from the ladies. “Mr. Jason Creevey.”

  * * *

  Cameron watched her pull the covers off the easels and drop them with a flick of her fingers as if she didn’t like the feel of them. He couldn’t blame her. He thought the whole thing tacky but found it hard to take his eyes off her. He hadn’t missed the murmurs of appreciation when she’d walked on stage either. When he looked around at the men close to him he saw that they all stared at Trisha. Her simple black lace dress clung to her lithe body leaving little to the imagination. Her legs looked longer and slimmer because of the black high heels she wore. She’d changed her hair style again with bangs now shielding her forehead and the rest of her hair pulled back into a high, sleek pony tail showing off her long, slim neck.

  “I hate her,” Donna T muttered.

  “Why?” Cameron couldn’t take his eyes off the figure on the stage.

  “Well, look at her. She’s tall and slim and gorgeous and sometime very soon my husband is probably going to be up close and personal with her.”

  “Calm down, Donna.” Cameron gave her hand a friendly squeeze. “I know for a fact Greg’s not her type. She’s just doing a job.”

  Donna squinted at him. “How would you know that?”

  “Hush up now.” Cameron had no intention of giving anything away to Donna and simply nodded towards the stage.

  They’d watched the first four competitors without comment, but when Trisha announced Number Five, Donna groaned.

  “Trust Jason Creevey to get in there,” she muttered. “If he’s in the running there’s not a chance for anyone else. Poor Greg.”

  Trisha continued to remove the covers and call out names until there was only one competitor left. With a flourish she whipped away the cover on the last easel and made a great show of looking at the name on the back of it.

  “Ladies and Gentleman,” she spoke clearly into her hand held mic, “May I present to you competitor Number Twelve, Mr. Greg Tooley.”

  Greg
walked out onto the stage and Donna’s hands flew to cover her face. Finally she dared to look and when she did Cameron heard her gasp.

  “He’s wearing a tux.” She turned to him in astonishment. “He doesn’t even own a tux. Where would he have got that?”

  “They were probably all sent to the same tux rental outfit by the publishing house’s PR people,” Cameron told her. “Have to say he cleans up purdy good, doncha think?”

  By way of an answer to his exaggerated drawl Donna thumped him again. Cameron sighed and rubbed his arm.

  “You really have got to stop doing that Donna, or I’ll be black and blue come morning. Come on, I want to introduce you to someone.”

  Cameron gave her no time to argue. He hauled her to her feet and headed towards the front of the ballroom. Trisha stood to one side of the stage talking to a group of people. They faded into his peripheral vision as he focused on her, seeing only the pale oval of her face and the dark smudges under her eyes.

  Anger tightened his jaw. Couldn’t these people see how tired she was? Reason told him he was over reacting, but what had reason to do with the fierce stab of jealousy that walloped his solar plexus as suddenly and hard as a well placed hoof? As he came closer, Trisha looked up.

  A flash of anger flared in her eyes when she spotted him but then she blinked and forced a tight, uncertain smile. Other than having to leave in such a hurry this morning, he couldn’t think of anything he’d done to make her so obviously angry.

  Two of the competitors who’d been in the group talking to her, both of whom Cameron knew slightly, moved away as he and Donna pressed forward. The last time Cameron had seen Trisha she’d been dressed in a towel. Now her fancy duds somehow affected the way his tongue worked.

  “Donna barrel races,” he told Trisha after he’d finally got his mouth to cooperate again and finished introducing them to each other. “You might want to set up an interview with her for your article.”

  “Why don’t you come to our barbeque tomorrow night and interview me then?” Donna, having swallowed her initial resentment looked hopeful, then disappointed when Trisha shook her head.

  “I would enjoy that, but it could be a little awkward. I’m still not sure of my actual role for this event but interviewing a competitor’s wife might be construed as conflict of interest.”

  Trisha flashed an apologetic smile at Donna, ignored Cameron, and moved away to join one of the publishing house reps.

  Cameron frowned as he watched her weave her way easily between a few people to meet the man who had caught her attention. That stab of jealousy wormed its way under his ribs again, making him catch his breath. He let it go in a grunt when Donna planted her elbow into his side.

  “Roll up your tongue, cowboy,” she said with a chuckle. “She’s out of your league.”

  “Ya think?”

  “I know,” Donna declared. “Louboutin’s and ranching aren’t exactly a match made in heaven.”

  “What the heck are Louboutin’s?” Cameron asked.

  “Shoes, dummy.” Donna rolled her eyes at his ignorance. “Classy, designer shoes. Think the cost of a good quarter horse stud fee, if not more.”

  Cameron’s jaw dropped. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Nope. Hey, there’s Greg.”

  Cameron recovered his jaw while Donna, in spite of her earlier fury, greeted her husband with a whoop and a big hug. Cameron heard her mutter something about Greg being a crazy galoot but loving him all the more for it.

  “Thanks for being here, buddy.” Greg reached out a hand to Cameron.

  “Wouldn’t have missed it for the world.” Cameron took his hand but pulled Greg in to a back slapping hug. “Donna provided one half of the show, you the other. What happens now?”

  “I’m going to take him home and peel that tux off of him.”

  Donna’s saucy little giggle and Greg’s answering grin left Cameron in doubt of their intentions.

  “Okay, guys, that’s a bit too much information for me. I’m gone.”

  * * *

  With a pang of envy Trisha watched Cameron tip his hat to the red-headed girl. He appeared to be comfortable around everyone she’d seen him with so far. Being warm to her one minute and cutting her off cold the next totally confused her. Nor had she seen him treat anyone else in such a cavalier fashion.

  If she had any sense she’d ignore him in the same way he’d ignored her. Too bad that part of her well, she might as well admit it, all of her, craved his presence. Talk about asking to be let down. Disgusted with herself she turned and almost immediately bumped into Brent Heywood. She stepped back with a sudden gasp, unable to stifle the dismay she felt at his closeness. The moment he’d stepped on the stage when she’d uncovered his picture her skin had tingled with an unpleasant premonition.

  “Enjoying the view of Number Twelve?” He appeared to not notice her reaction at being so close to him and nodded his head towards Greg.

  “He’s certainly a good looking man,” Trisha agreed, “but spoken for. The girl with him is his wife.”

  “And the other guy?” Brent asked.

  “A friend of Greg and Donna’s I believe.”

  “Hm. Getting mighty friendly with the locals, aren’t we?” Brent’s tone held a barely disguised sneer.

  “It’s my job to be friendly.” Trisha made her voice non-committal as Brent walked around her as stealthily as a prowling cat.

  She turned to face him, instantly aware that in doing so her back was to the room. Intuition told her that he wanted her full attention. Not wishing to give him that satisfaction, she stepped to his left and turned so that she could see several of the tables and the guests sitting at them.

  Smiling, Brent leant towards her. “Then be friendly,” he whispered. “Patricia.”

  Hearing her given name delivered in such a chilling manner shocked Trisha into immobility.

  “Nothing to say?” Brent persisted when she didn’t respond. “Please tell me I haven’t got it wrong. It is Patricia Somerville, isn’t it? Contender for the European three-day event championships. Until you killed your horse that is. What was his name? Oh, yes. Delacourt.”

  Trisha didn’t even have to close her eyes to see again her beautiful thoroughbred gelding prancing across the green turf, his neck arched and his black hide gleaming as it slid easily over his well toned muscles. Honest and brave, the best horse she’d ever had.

  Brent made an expressive gesture with his hand. Any onlooker might assume he was explaining something to her with great good humor. Only she could see the steely glint in his pale blue eyes, a glacial contrast to the happy smile plastered on his face.

  “Still nothing to say?” He bumped his shoulder gently against hers but there was nothing gentle in his cold tone. “People here in Stampede City are very serious about horses. They wouldn’t take to someone who’d caused their horse’s death. So consider being very friendly to me Ms. Somerville. One word in the right ears would open a can of worms I think you’d rather not deal with.”

  Trisha licked her lips nervously. “How do you expect me to do anything for you when I’m not judging this competition?” She hated hearing the quaver in her own voice.

  “Oh, but I have it on the best authority that you are. I spoke to Marguerite DeVries just before I came on stage and she’s just thrilled you agreed to be the judge.”

  Trisha’s head reeled with anger at Samantha. How could looking at photographs of cowboys for the modeling agency have escalated so quickly to picking the winner for a publishing house’s cover competition, the latter without her knowledge or her consent? Her mind conjured up all manner of retribution to be heaped on Samantha at the earliest opportunity. But right now she had to deal with Brent Heywood.

  “What do you want?” she asked, although she was sure of the answer.

  “First place of course.” Brent shifted as if to move away from her but then zeroed in again and shook her hand. Her skin crawled at his touch. “Just remember Delacourt.”


  Nausea threatened to swamp her and she gripped the back of the closest chair. She tried to not gasp for breath and hoped that no one would see her distress as she sank onto the seat. She poured herself a glass of water from the jug on the table and took one sip, then another. Before she knew it she had drained the glass.

  “Nerves got the better of you, Ms. Watts?” Vince Allen drew up a chair beside her. “Or are those shoes getting uncomfortable?”

  “Both,” Trisha admitted, thankful for the distraction his attention offered her. “And I must say thank you for your advice to me at the beginning of this evening. It helped a lot.”

  “Here’s a bit more, if you’d like it.” Vince watched her with steady eyes.

  “What would that be?” She caught her breath. As if dealing with Brent Heywood wasn’t bad enough, did she have to repel attackers from other sides too?

  “I saw Heywood talking to you,” Vince said. “I got the impression from the look on your face you weren’t happy with what he had to say. There’s no good news around that man. You’d best stay away from him altogether if you can.”

  Trisha bit her lip and nodded. “Were there any cameras on us Vince? Could anyone else have seen what you did?”

  Vince shook his head. “The news crews have all gone and everyone else has wrapped. Can’t guarantee no one might have got you on a cell phone, but if they did and there’s any questions you can always say you were tired.”

  “And that would be true.” Trisha stood and straightened her dress. “On that note, I think I’m going to call it a night.”

  “Want me to get you a cab?”

  Trisha’s phone vibrated inside her clutch purse. She withdrew it, saw who the text was from and shook her head.

  “Thanks, Vince, but no. It’s taken care of.”

  “Then I’ll say goodnight.” Vince smiled at her and stood up. “See you next week for the presentations.”

  Trisha waited until he was out of earshot and then pressed her speed dial. “Are you still here?”